


they say we cannot live by words alone

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:05:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an ill-advised but well-deserved act of heroism. </p>
<p>and the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime approached the office party with weariness. He quite simply didn’t want to be here. But he was editor of the paper and these loud people were his staff and the fact that he needed a drink more than anything overrode his reluctance to socialise. He pushed himself through the furious smokers, their bubble of air filled with cooling ash and annoyance, and into the too hot, heaving crowds of the club. The thump of music pulsed through the walls and floor into his blood, overtaking his heart’s own beat. He didn’t recognise it, but judging from the gesticulating, open mouthed dancing of the crowd, it was a popular song. Fuck, he thought, he was getting old. As he moved towards the bar, the numbers of people dwindled. Here, they sat around tables: high-heels kicked off, sticky and half-empty glasses littering the surfaces. Heads were nodded in his direction, hands raised in greeting. Several of his editorial team mimed getting a drink for him, but he shook his head. He was in no mood to match their drunken jollity, to put up with their uncoordinated attempts at half-hearted friendship. He knew everyone believed him to be a cold, heartless bastard of a boss. Best keep it that way, he thought cynically. Impressions and perceptions; the life blood of the journalistic business applied to him as equally as it did to the objects of their articles.

He gulped down the vodka, breathing in sharply as the burning of the alcohol both blistered his veins and numbed his nerves. Immediately ordering another one, he turned and surveyed the scene. This was some circle of hell that Dante never wrote about. Neon lights of blue and pink jagged across his vision like some trickery of light designed specifically to give him a needling headache. The Christmas decorations had been half-hearted to begin with and now were swiftly disappearing under people’s feet or dying sadly in a corner. God, this was grim. Apt then, to round off his bloody awful week of arguments with his father over the future of the paper. He’d seen the paper start from nothing, nurtured it into something relatively successfully and now all that was under threat from a man who cared only about the numbers in the accountants’ books.

Feeling utterly depressed, he had just made the decision to go home when his eye was caught by a sight he never thought he would actually see. His newest journo, the youngest and indeed the tallest, was at the party. She had resisted all previous offers of harmless drinks at the pub by colleagues, even by himself, and yet she was here in the devil’s pit: a party where people were getting drunk and making fools of themselves, a party where she wouldn’t even be missed. Jaime might have questioned his skill in judging characters but for the fact that Brienne Tarth looked as miserable as sin. Of course she was. He would have bet a considerable amount of money on the fact that she wouldn’t be enjoying herself in this scenario. Brienne Tarth was all work and no play. It was months ago when her application for the paper’s new investigative reporter had landed on his desk. He had immediately binned it— far too young and inexperienced for such a tough post. Then she had called him up, asking whether he had got her CV and example pieces. He had laughed at that, at her, for her bloody cheek. She turned up at the office the next day and demanded to see him. The tall, ugly girl had stood in front of his desk and stumblingly, stubbornly explained why exactly she would be perfect for the role. He distinctly remembered his objections sticking in his chest after her impassioned speech. He’d taken a punt, gone with his gut as he had always done, and it had paid off. She was becoming a worthy writer, if still horribly idealistic.

However, as good as she was at her job, she was terrible at being a normal social human being. Her words flowed succinctly on paper, but she could barely string a sentence together without blushing and becoming mute. He found it equally peculiar and entertaining, and he would go out of his way to provoke her into fits of hissing rage or reddened silence. He was horrid like that, but then again, she was so easy to tease. Here and now though, Brienne was being pestered by some red haired guy he didn’t recognise. She was being monosyllabic in her responses to his questions, her short blonde hair falling into her eyes. It was not an unfamiliar aspect of Brienne, but there was something more going on here. As he watched, the overly familiar man slid his hand onto Brienne’s knee, a curl of a smile on his lips. He watched her flinch and shake him off abruptly, her arms crossed and lips pressed together. The man was slimy as hell and he was clearly not getting the hint. He felt sorry for the girl; she didn’t deserve this. Bloody hell, he must be getting soft in his old age.

He stirred his bones, finished his drink and approached the table. Both Brienne and the sleaze looked up at his arrival. Did he spot a flicker of relief in her eyes? Whatever it was, she huffed a hello and then made her excuses. They both watched her tall figure move slowly, awkwardly across the packed floor to the loos. Jaime turned back to the guy and studied him. Too much hair gel, cheap suit, a day’s stubble – he smelt like bad news.

“Who are you?” asked Jaime, raising his voice above the music.

“What’s that, mate?” he said, dropping the ends of the words in a put upon Estuary twang. Jaime resisted the urge to grab the man by his collar and chuck him against the wall in annoyance.

“I’m not your mate. And I was asking who the fuck you are.”

The man didn’t get the coolness of Jaime’s voice, the danger that lay within. “Connington. Ron? New pap at the mag, innit. Get the pics whatever, whenever.”

Of course, he thought. One of the breed of paparazzi who would stick cameras up women’s skirts and stalk families on their days out. Cersei’s appointment, if he ever saw one. She always did have a particularly ruthless side. Her gossip magazine, another part of the Lannister Press Group, was no holds barred and of course, exceeded his own paper’s circulation by thousands.

“And how do you know Brienne?” continued Jaime.

“Old friends, we are. Yeah, spotted her here. Thought we’d…err… reacquaint ourselves, if you catch my drift?” he said, with a predatory smile.

Jaime sat back, wondering why he was surprised at the idea of Brienne having an ex-boyfriend. She was hardly open about her past, but then neither was he. There was no real gossip about her; she just wasn’t that type of girl. She was certainly not Connington’s type.

“Go way back do you?” asked Jaime carefully.

“Yeah,” he nodded as he sucked at a bottle of beer. “Yeah. Uni. Those were the days. Freedom, right? Yeah, do what you want with whoever you wanted, right? And now, well, nothing much has changed, has it? Lucky for me.”

“Really?” Jaime asked.

“Yeah, mate. Ugly girls are always gagging for it, right?”

Jaime stilled at his words, spoken so blithely. “What did you say?”

Ron grinned. “Ugly girls. Desperate.”

“That’s what I thought,” muttered Jaime as he swung for Connington’s ignorant face. His fist hit with a satisfying thump, pushing Connington off his chair and sprawling onto the floor. Jaime jumped up and knelt over the groaning man. He grinned at the sight of Ron’s broken nose, the blood streaming with satisfyingly lurid redness. He grabbed his collar, pulling him upwards. “Not so lucky now, mate. Never speak such crap again, understand?” Connington groaned again. “Understand?” The prostrate man finally nodded and Jaime dropped him back down with relish.

As Jaime stood, he realised the party had come to a grinding halt. He was ringed by people, shocked faces, more with grins and even a few cheers. He grimaced at the attention— he would never live this down in the office tomorrow morning. Lord knows if his father caught wind of it. Or Cersei. She would definitely be the worse of the two. Enough of the heroics, he thought as he massaged his painful knuckles. Quite what came over him, he didn’t know. Nothing to do with youthful eagerness or drunkenness – he was neither, but fuck it, he certainly enjoyed it. Now, however, he was definitely going home before he got himself into more trouble.

“Why did you do that?” asked Brienne, appearing in front of him, her words almost too soft against the harsh noise of the reenergised party.

Jaime looked up. “Christ, you saw that?”

She nodded, eyebrows raised as if her surprise at his actions had been etched on.

“I need to get out of here,” he said, starting towards the exit. Wolf whistles and pointed looks followed him all the way out. A moment later, Brienne was next to him, putting on her coat with a shiver. They stood in the wrenching cold for several breaths, the biting wind making them turn their backs and hunker down. They were quite alone now, the smokers having dispersed with their cravings satiated.

Jaime broke the silence first. “Connington’s a c—“ he said, breaking off. “He’s an arse.  He said something—“ he stopped, shrugging. He rubbed his knuckles again.

Brienne looked at his hand and then down at her feet. “I know he is. And I can guess what he was saying. I’ve heard it all before,” she said, her jaw tightening. “I didn’t want him there, he just turned up.”

Perturbed by the upset he heard in her voice, he jostled her with his shoulder and tried to catch her eye. “You’re a big girl; I would have thought you could look after yourself.”

Her gaze flickered up, wary. “Yes, well. I didn’t ask you to hit him—”

He pointed at the door, at Connington who remained within, annoyed at her accusatory tone of voice. “Why are you cross with me? He was a creep.” She remained stony faced. “Fuck— well, there’s gratitude for you. I don’t even understand why you’re here— you hate these sorts of things, don’t you? Shouldn’t you be at home with your hot water bottle and cat?”

She narrowed her eyes at his spitting sarcasm. “I don’t have a bloody cat, thank you very much. And I was handling the situation—“

Jaime laughed, cutting her off. “You looked as if you were going to burst into tears. Your face is pretty easy to read, even with the freckles and scowl, you know.”

She buried her chin into her collar. “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” she muttered.

“Give me a break, Brienne. You walk into the office every day with your jaw set, like you’ve got to save the world. I’ve seen you worried about your sources, relieved when you meet a deadline. Bloody hell, I’ve even seen you smiling when I’ve signed something off. So don’t you assume that I don’t know you, that I can’t tell what’s going on in that stupid, naïve head of yours.”

She stared at him, open eyed and overawed. She had bright blue eyes, framed with pale blonde eyelashes. Pretty eyes. He’d seen her frankly plain looking face for months now, and yet he had somehow missed them. He wondered how that had happened. Ignorant of his distracted thoughts, Brienne chewed her bottom lip. Conclusion apparently reached, she spoke. “He deserved everything he got, but why did _you_ hit him?”

He blinked. It was a good question. It had happened so quickly, from one breath to the next that he hadn’t had time to think rationally. “I guess something snapped. I don’t like bullies. Never have.”

“Since when do you— I mean, I didn’t think you cared—“ Her cheeks reddened as she let her words escape her. She swallowed hard. “I owe you my thanks.”

“All in a day’s work, love, but I knew you’d appreciate me defending your honour and all that.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Don’t push it. And don’t call me ‘love’.”

He grinned at her familiar reaction. “Remember I’m your boss… suitable deference at all times please.”

She looked at him with determination, as if trying to express some feeling she could not yet fully form into words, but then turned abruptly away to look up and down the road. “Yes, of course,” she said quietly. “Work tomorrow. I should get the bus home.”

Jaime went to reach for her arm before he stopped. Whatever joint moment of shared purpose they had had, it was over, made to disappear with his mention of reality. It took an instant of painful realisation to watch the story here – her past with its surprising, tempting depth – withdraw from his outstretched fingers. He sighed heavily, watching the mist hang. “Let me get you a cab, for god’s sake.”

Another girl might have gone all coy at his chivalry, but Brienne just gave him a guarded look and shrugged her shoulders. “Alright. Thanks.”

“One thing before you go.”

She frowned, managing to look both slightly angry and slightly petrified. “What?”

“Well, you don’t forget that you owe me one wildly inappropriate, completely not thought through punch for someone who deserves it. I think that’s only fair, don’t you?”

Something like amusement flickered across her lips. “Yes. Only fair.”

Smiling back, Jaime raised an arm for a cab and saw her safely inside. He was about to go when through the steamed up window, he could just make out Brienne saying goodbye. He mouthed a goodnight back, watching until the red tail lights dwindled in the dark before he too turned for home.


	2. a sequel of sorts...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as prompted by downlookingup.
> 
> gymnophoria (n.) the distinct feeling that someone is mentally undressing you

Brienne always knew when someone was staring at her. Being teased and taunted and bullied had heightened her sensitivities to such an extent that as soon as someone even kept their gaze on her for just an above-normal length of time she would turn, scowl and slip away if she could. Simple enough to do in public. Less so at work. Here, she just hoped keeping her head down would make her invisible. And despite her stature, invisibility was the usual state of affairs. She got her copy in on time, arrived early and left late. That is, until her editor had punched her ex-boyfriend at the Christmas party. Then all eyes – amused, incredulous and scandalised – were on her. And she was a little less forgotten about in the weeks after, not least by Jaime Lannister himself. He was still cutting and merciless in his comments on her pieces, still mocked her own naïve pretentions of the real world, but his attention on her was deliberate and drew her in.

He was a handsome man undoubtedly. He was also sarcastic, intelligent, occasionally cruel. She greatly admired his fierce writing, his blisteringly honest words that branded the paper. And she, despite painful war wounds, was still prisoner to her feelings, still nurtured girlish fancies, entertained scenarios where she might catch the eye of someone and have her attraction returned. So it was inevitable that soon her heart fluttered when she saw him walking to her desk. She became a little looser in her conversation with him, after having got over an age of even worse stuttering. She began to look forward to being called into his office, to be given commissions or have her articles signed off. Anyone else would have just accepted this day to day care as normal, but Brienne had found it so rarely that she became almost drunk on it. Not that she would do anything about what she felt. She’d tried to once, with another, and even now, years on, could bring up burning humiliation and overwhelming embarrassment in mere seconds. No, she would be happy as long as nothing changed. Other futures could be dreamt about, where it was safe to do so.

A promotion later, she was working even closer with Jaime and was even more in love, though she hid it in her depths as always. They argued more, spoke truthfully in return and had extended professional acquaintances into friendship. She quickly realised she was one of his very few friends (and vice versa) and therefore they caught up outside the office often. She’d seen him dead drunk, spitting with furious anger about his father, relaxed and joking with his brother. He was generous with his money and time, treating her despite her protestations. She began cooking him homemade lunches when she realised all he ate were takeaways. She wondered how he remained singularly unattached, how longing looks from beautiful women seemed never to sink in, but she could never bring herself to ask outright. Sometimes Tyrion would try to match him up, or hint heavily but Jaime would just roll his eyes and change the subject. Then a month or so ago even Tyrion had stopped trying, but while he remained silent on the subject, his glances to her had a new edge she couldn’t decipher.

She couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. She would find Jaime calling her in and then either snapping at her or engaging in chit-chat, which he knew she hated. She would close the door behind her, increasingly confused and rapidly thinking back to something she might have done to change things. Her senses of being watched or stared at went into overdrive; and she would look up to catch Jaime hastily looking away or coughing. Once she could even swear she caught him blushing. Again, she was called into his office. It was late, a Friday evening and most sane people had gone home hours ago.

As she entered this time, there was no dawdling or silly excuse. A big piece of work, all corruption and bribes and bent coppers. She was at the white board, brainstorming ideas and leads. Jaime was behind her, sitting on the edge of his messy desk.

“So, what do you think—“ she asked, turning. Her words caught as she felt his gaze scratching its way up her, inch by inch. He didn’t stop, not even when she took a step back, bumping into the wall. It was a hard look, intense and without a bit of insincerity. It was like he was investigating every freckle, every scar and scab, every moment of pale skin he couldn’t know she had, as though her jeans and shirt simply didn’t exist. She barely looked at herself in the mirror, knowing her flaws all too well enough, but he was drinking her in as if she were some kind of marble statue in an Italian museum, immaculately carved and perfect in form. She’d never felt anything like it, held still by its force and made breathless by its intent.

She didn’t really understand it either, not then, so by the time his eyes reached her face, it was red and blotchy and her own gaze was frozen to the floor. His fingers thrummed the table, and had she looked up she would have seen a keenness to his face, lust and want gilding his eyes.

Instead all she could do was mangle some excuses about having to go, running out before Jaime had managed to say even a word. It kept her awake though, that look, wondering if she’d imagined it or misread it or any number of ridiculous possibilities. She made herself ignore Jaime’s phone calls, the screen glaring into the night. But after the undressing— for that is only how she could describe it— she found her return to the blandness, the ignorance of other people distinctly odd, as if her senses had been reset at a higher level

She’d hoped that he might have forgotten about it, a mistake or some other easy get out. But he did it again when the Monday morning editorial meeting rolled around, more subtly this time but oh, she knew, ears and everything else pinking. She cornered him afterwards.

“I know what you’re doing—“ she muttered. “And it isn’t funny, even by your standards—“

“And if I was being serious?”

She barked a laugh. “I know you’re not.”

“I’ve never even seen you in a bloody skirt, so yeah, maybe I’ve got to use my imagination instead.”

“But— why? Stop being weird.” She looked at him warily.

He looked bemused. “Oh come on, Brienne, really? Why? Because you— your legs, all of you—“ he moved closer, whispering into her ear. “—turn me on.”

She flinched backwards, staring. “Don’t make fun of me.”

His jaw clenched, but his tone was soothing, careful. “How long have we known each other? Been friends? Would I lie to you?”

Big eyes became even bigger. “But I’m not— anything special. You could have anyone.”

“That’s not what I— would you want me to have anyone?”

She dropped her gaze and very slowly, very minutely shook her head, straggly hair covering her wordless declaration.

He pulled her further into the shadows, fingers wrapped round her cheek. “Everything. You are everything,” he whispered on her lips.

Brienne found herself tumbling— it was easy to do after years on a cliff edge— but it was only later still, when Jaime would make her stand just in front of him, eyes darkening in obvious appreciation as he took slow moments to undress her, that she would really believe what he was thinking that day.


End file.
